Raw Sugar
by Victoria Squalor
Summary: Morning-after sequel to Hustle Rose. Breakfast is served. (Smutfic; complete)


**A/N:** Enjoy!  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own OUAT or any of its sexy people

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**Raw Sugar**  
by Victoria Squalor

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He hummed rather tunelessly as he dumped a measure of ground dark French roast into the coffee filter, the melody's identity only striking him as he flicked the switch on the machine. It'd been the song serenading his fingers as they'd tripped their way up the slippery barrier of her stockings, tracing the flocked velvety flowers that bloomed against her thigh before he'd hit the jackpot: that feverish little pussy of hers sweltering behind a soaked wisp of lace. He didn't much care for dried-up 80s arena rock anthems, or covers of such grunted out by surly cabbies who reeked of Skoal, but he rather treasured that song now, remembering the way she'd blinked her big blue-topaz eyes and clasped her thighs tighter to hold him in.

He'd had her twice more last night after their initial bout of icebreaker sex, after he'd safely shut off his phone to bar any further interruptions. She'd been so flushed and giddy after her orgasm, all lovely pink cheeks and shy smiles, that he couldn't resist kissing her, capturing her soft parted lips over and over again as she quickly melted into him like warmed butter and his cock just as quickly rose again to full mast.

He wasn't used to such demure bed partners. Even when he'd moonlighted as an escort for the extra scratch, his clients had always consisted of Storybrooke's bored housewives and jaded spinsters, women who'd been let down by romance one too many times and while they smiled at his forced affectations and compliments and the way he'd purposely smudge a spoonful of chocolate mousse against the corner of their mouth over dinner so that he could lean over and lick it off, they remained well aware of the fact that they'd hired him to play a part, and even that they weren't buying, not really.

Even the casual flings he picked up at the bar for no-strings-attached sex were never really into him. He and Ruby had had a few such encounters, usually brought on by boredom and tequila shots, but once the alcohol was removed from the equation, he preferred her as simply a friend. There wasn't any more of a future to be had there, given how gun-shy he was about serious entanglements—he'd had exactly one of those in his life, and considering how that fracas had ended, he had no intention of allowing his heart to go there ever again. And he'd been okay with the drunk pickups and the pay-for-play experience, on the whole. He was a man with certain needs and had no complaints as long as they were being adequately met.

He just hadn't counted on little Miss Thorne.

God, but he'd just gorged himself at the trough last night—drunk on the feel of her petal-soft skin, her nervous, _I'm-not-accustomed-to-this-sort-of-male-attention_ glances that gave way to hesitant smiles that let him in, to the desperate cries of ecstasy that led him _home_. He thought he'd seen her around town a couple of times, maybe at the diner or perhaps the drugstore—the town wasn't that big, after all, and people tended to knock heads with some frequency—but she'd never been part of Ruby's circle before last night, and he couldn't help but wonder where she'd been hiding herself all this time. She looked upper-crust, some daddy's little princess with that aristocratic bearing that bespoke of a childhood full of riding lessons and cotillions with frothy sherbet gowns and afternoons at the club while the 'rents knocked back Old Fashioneds and toasted to being part of the one percent.

Maybe she'd only gone home with him to break type, then. Maybe _because_ it was the wrong, naughty thing to do. He mulled it over and found he didn't much care _why _she did it, as long as he could convince her to keep doing it. He hoped she liked pancakes.

He oiled the electric griddle with a dribble of canola and set about whipping the lumps out of the pancake batter. He'd looped a black cotton apron around his neck to protect himself from any grease spatters, but hadn't bothered to put anything else back on, so the sash was tied in a bow that dangled down over the cleft of his bare ass. Corrigan tended not to bother with clothing in general when he was at home, unless he happened to be taking the boat out, since there were statutes against that sort of thing. Propping open his tiny cubbyhole of a refrigerator, he dug out a quart container of strawberries and a half-full container of orange juice. There was no maple syrup, but the bear-shaped bottle of honey would make do.

The batter was pooling and hissing on the griddle when he caught wind of a much softer sound just out of frame, the rustling of cotton sheets, and looked up to see his little patrician rose framed in the doorway of the cabin, her tangle of amber curls fuzzed from sleep and sex, his bedlinens wound modestly around her middle and obscuring most of that lovely flesh. Both her face and her body hovered, teetering with uncertainty, waiting for him to make some sort of affirming gesture that would let her know how to proceed within his domain. He smiled encouragingly at her.

"Morning. You hungry?"

She smiled back, and the way her soft pink mouth framed her ivory teeth reminded him of the carefully painted mouth on an expensive doll. "You cook?"

"Of course," he replied, infusing his voice with a note of mock offense. "You didn't think I lived off chili fries from Granny's, did you?" He turned back to the griddle, flipping the rapidly browning flapjacks over. "Wouldn't be able to keep this in shape if that were the case." He reached toward the small of his back and flicked at the bow dangling conspicuously over the twin swells of his buttocks. Glancing back up to gauge her reaction, he noted smugly how quickly that crimson had zoomed into her cheeks. "I don't know if you're a coffee drinker or not, but…"

"Oh, I'm…" she faltered, and he'd figured as much; she looked like a tea drinker, black with liberal sugar if he were to lay any bets on it, but he didn't have so much as a bag stashed away. "That's, uh, fine."

"No allergies?" he prompted, giving the container of strawberries a nudge with his spatula.

"Oh, no."

"Good." He reached into the plastic bin and pried a particularly ripe one loose, the skin of it bruised slightly, tinting his fingers red with juice. "Want one?" he inquired, beckoning with it in his grip, threatening to burst.

Miss Thorne smiled and stepped toward him, the trailing end of her sheet coming unfurled as she moved. Halting in her tracks, she turned into a blushing, fumbling mass of quivering limbs and rustling linen as she tried to pull it back up around her breasts. It was adorable, really, that she should be so conscious of her modesty now, after he'd already spent several glorious hours crawling all over her bare body and becoming intimately acquainted with its nooks and crannies. He moved toward her to make up the distance, silencing her quiet huffs of frustration as he pushed the tip of the berry between her lips. Her eyes widened for a moment, her lips pursing around the fruit as the juice dribbled into the creases of her mouth, then bit down into the firm flesh.

"Is it sweet?" he murmured, watching her swallow, feeling his balls tighten and his cock slowly begin to rise. She batted those crystalline eyes at him again, flushed pink, smiled, nodded.

"Good. That's good." And with one swift motion he yanked the sheet loose, letting it tumble to their feet in a sad heap. She'd barely recoiled in surprise before he was pressing the half-bitten strawberry to her right nipple, slowly tracing lazy paths around her areola that stained her skin with the sweet red nectar. Her breath sharpened, the high and desperate pant of one ascending into altitudes where oxygen was a precious commodity. "Oh—_ohh_," she whimpered, irises flickering between his intent expression and the sticky berry juice gathering around her quickly hardening nipple, flecked with a trail of dark seed fibers. Corrigan dipped his head lower to lick it clean with the flat of his tongue, swirling the tip leisurely in circles before giving a quick nip with his teeth that made her squeak like a mouse. "The—the—" she gasped as he suckled. "The pancakes—"

Noting the smell of scorched vanilla now wafting through the cabin, he reluctantly pulled his mouth away, a thin thread of saliva clinging to his lip as he parted from those perfect little tits and reached out to impatiently snap off the heat, leaving the already too-brown flapjacks on the griddle. "I think we'll have to try again later," he mumbled, his hunger for her significantly outweighing his need for food at the moment. "Use those to feed the fish."

As he lifted the berry to her lips again and watched her nibble daintily, his rigid cock now noticeably tenting the front of his apron, he thought about all the other things he'd like to do to her. Were it not for the early spring chill in the air and the threat of rain, he'd have liked to take the boat far enough out to sea so that they could fuck on the top deck, in the open air. He'd never actually done that with anyone before, despite it being a recurring fantasy of his and frequent shower-wank material. But then, he didn't typically invite women into his personal space, either. He'd half expected last night for her to invite him back to her place—a girl like that no doubt had a nice spread with track lighting and Pottery Barn shit everywhere—but no, she'd wanted to follow him home. And he'd been strangely okay with it.

More than okay with it, now. Definitely more than okay. _Okay_ wasn't a sufficient descriptor, not when he intended to have her on every single available surface of his personal watercraft, and he was going to start by christening the kitchen.

He plucked a fresh berry from its nest and started at her sternum, tracing slowly down to her navel, alternating with little swipes of his tongue and scrapes of his teeth, encouraged by each soft huff and twitch of her body. Glancing up at her wide-eyed expression, he responded with only a wicked grin before pressing the tip of it to that tender little hood that housed her clit, and she yelped in response, her thighs quaking nigh uncontrollably. She gripped his shoulders to steady herself, nails digging crescents into his flesh.

"Hmm, you're already pretty wet down here," Corrigan mused thoughtfully as he dragged the strawberry through her sticky folds, mesmerized as he watched it gathering her juices. She moaned and bucked her hips suddenly, and he watched it slip inside her just for a moment. He was very aware at this point of the highly restrictive apron and jerked with impatience at the strings, flinging it off to join the sheet on the floor as his unimpeded cock jutted up between his thighs. The tip of it prodded her lower belly as he rose up and moved in closer, offering her the berry again. "Want to taste how sweet you are?" His voice was dry and gritty as desert sand, his breath as hot on her cheek.

Miss Thorne parted her lips, but nothing came out save that soft pink tongue that curled around the strawberry he proffered, lapping up the taste of her own sweet cunt before savoring the fruit itself. _Christ, _Corrigan swore inwardly as he reached down to swipe a thumb over his cock head, milking out a few more drops of pre-cum into his palm so he could slick the length of himself. He needed to be in her now, but he was less than enthused with the notion of breaking this seduction scene so he could fumble in his belongings for a condom. "Turn around, love," he urged her, guiding her into place so that she faced the kitchen counter, gripping the edge of it, and began hastily shunting through the contents of his duffel bag, still lying on the deck. Luck was with him, though, and he fished one out in quick order, rolling it down his slippery cock and tossing the wrapper aside. He'd have liked her to do it again, remembering the way her soft, hesitant fingers had almost reverently gripped and stroked him, but there was always next time. She watched him over her shoulder, her eyes so heavy-lidded she looked as if she were falling asleep. A quick, sharp slap on her round little ass fixed that, and she shrieked.

"You ever been spanked, Miss Thorne?"

"I…" She seemed to be struggling with the question, whether due to her diffidence or not being sure whether to include childhood discipline in the same category as purely adult physical pleasure. "I…no."

"Would you like to try it sometime?" He nipped at one pale globe, watching it redden in the wake of his teeth. "I'd love to turn you over my knee and make your little cheeks all red." She keened softly in lieu of an actual response. He sucked at the bite mark, and out of the corner of his eye, spotted the honey bear on the countertop, knocking it to the ground with an overextended sweep of his arm. She tried to crane her neck around to watch as he drizzled honey over her already luscious bottom and followed the tacky trail with his tongue. "Mmmm," he moaned as he lapped up the sticky sugar, and she mewled. "I'd love to put you in a little pleated skirt…some knee socks and Mary Janes…no panties, of course…and just spank you and fuck you all afternoon." He wasn't sure he could take much more of this talk without blowing his load prematurely, but neither could he seem to stop, as his tongue kept bathing her ass in between words, sliding down to her wet cunt to delve into her juices once more. "I'd love to watch you bounce on my dick, ride me like one of your horses. You did say you liked riding horses, didn't you, Miss Thorne?"

"I—ohh—_Corrigan_—oh, please, now, do it _now_," she whined, her voice higher and needier than he'd ever heard it—in the last twenty-four hours of their acquaintance, that was.

Far be it from him to torment his flustered young maiden any longer. He seized his cock, teasing and rubbing the head against her moist folds for only a moment before he thrust in, hard, burying himself up to the balls and earning a shrill cry as she clamped down around him, hotter and tighter than ever. Her voice quavered as she repeated his name, interspersed with breathy pleas to the Christian God that he had no time or willingness to prostrate himself before, and with entreaties to go harder and faster and deeper. He did his best to keep in time with her demands, plunging in so roughly that her hips were nearly slammed into the counter's edge, and he had to encircle her waist to steady her. He could still feel the slight stickiness of her skin as her pert backside slapped against him. They'd need a shower later. The onboard shower was little more than a cramped booth with a shower head and a snug fit for just himself, but he was most keen to make it work with the two of them.

He reached around to fondle and cup her breasts, gently kneading the soft flesh as she thrust back against his hips, squeezing him so hard in her tightly clenched pussy that he felt the little remaining blood flush out of his head and zoom to his cock. "Miss Thorne, you are—" he began, but broke off into meaningless stutters as he shook with the effort of his orgasm and the wild twitching of his member. "Oh…_oh_…marvelous."

Her giggle was faint and shy. "Marvelous? That's all?"

"Oh, of course not." He kissed the side of her neck as he eased the spent organ out of her, then knelt on the floor to finish his business, slowly suckling and nuzzling her clit until her inner thigh muscles were spasming again and she was trying to press them closed again, back arching against the countertop and knocking over the box of pancake mix as she wailed.

They just stood there for a few minutes afterward, her face half buried in his neck as he trailed a lazy finger across her hip, both of them surveying the breakfast mess.

"You look sleepy again," he commented. "Want me to bring it to you in bed?"

Those dreamy eyes were going to be the end of him, he already knew it. "That would be nice." That soft, sweet voice. He was a dead man. "What should we do afterward?"

"Nap." He tucked a curl behind her ear so he could suckle the lobe. "Then sex. Then lunch."

"And then?" The note of mischieviousness in her voice was unmistakable. _Oh yes, and what a glorious end it will be._

"Then I thought I'd teach you how to sail the boat, if you were interested." Maybe the haze would burn off and the sun would warm things up enough to allow for top-deck fucking after all; one could hope, and Corrigan was nothing if not hopeful. "Then more sex. But I'm afraid we'll have to go somewhere else for dinner; I've got nothing left here but cup noodles."

"We can go to Granny's." She sifted her fingers through the wiry thatch on his chest with tenderness in her eyes, something that both frightened and enthralled him. "And then you can stay at my house." He tried not to dwell on the bigger implications of this. It didn't have to be anything other than what it was, not right now.

"Sounds good to me." He pressed a kiss to her hairline. "Since I'm starting over, any special breakfast requests?"

She nipped gently at his lower lip. "Bring the honey to bed."


End file.
